


Land of the Midnight Sun

by sailaway



Category: Alien vs Predator (2004), Aliens vs Predators Series - Various Authors, Predator Original Series (1987-1990), Predators (2010), The Predator (2018)
Genre: F/M, Interspecies, Interspecies Sex, One Night Stands, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-18 14:01:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18701056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailaway/pseuds/sailaway
Summary: Sophie had never seen a yautja before; not in person. Most humans hadn’t. He was distinctly recognizable, though, even in the seedy space-station's dim light – very tall, bristling with armor and weaponry, black head-tendrils like dreadlocks, nightmare face.She decided then and there he was inexplicably, overwhelmingly gorgeous.





	Land of the Midnight Sun

**Author's Note:**

> _This is a oneshot bit-o-porn, and is NOT connected to my My Yautja Boyfriend series._

 

 

* * *

 

  
There was a yautja at the bar.

Sophie stared – albeit discreetly. She had never seen a yautja before; not in person. Most humans hadn’t. He was distinctly recognizable, though, even in the dim light – very tall, bristling with armor and weaponry, black head-tendrils like dreadlocks, nightmare face.

She decided then and there he was inexplicably, overwhelmingly gorgeous.

Given how uncommon encounters were, rumors about the secretive species were rife. The basic known facts were that they were intensely proud and private, kept to their own kind, and that they were ruthless hunters who prized the chase, the kill, the taking of trophies above anything else. Also, that despite this drive for the hunt seemingly built into their DNA, they seemed to have their own form of moral code, something that caused them to spare the weak and unarmed. Whether it was about honor, or merely the sport of it, she couldn’t say.

There were... other rumors. Sophie had put little stock in alcohol-fueled jokes and the tall tales spun in seedy space-stations exactly like this one, but she recalled them now as she took in the yautja’s lean, muscular build and striking patterning. She’d heard they had dicks of some kind, and stamina to last for days, though such details were vague enough to sound like lewd exaggeration or wishful thinking. Would such a private race deign to copulate with another species?

She was struck by the unavoidable urge to find out.

She finished the last of her ale in one swig and left a few credit chips on the battered table, and with confidence born of personality and boosted by drink she approached where the yautja sat at the far end of the bar. If he'd wanted to be left alone, it was working, as the scattered few other denizens of the place were giving him a wide berth.

His size was even more apparent as she drew close. Sophie was middling height for a woman, and quite fit, but this alien made her feel as small and unthreatening as a matchstick. Seven and a half feet of muscle turned, hair tendrils swinging, as she leaned against the counter and smiled up at him.

“So, what‘s a yautja’s drink of choice?”

His eyes were a startling icy blue, so pale they were almost silver. Most images of yautja in existence were low quality, the details difficult to make out, but in the ones she had seen their eyes were a sort of yellow-orange. The images had also failed to capture the searing, predatory focus in that gaze.

For a moment she thought he must not have a universal translator. Then she thought that maybe he did, and was just unimpressed, or even displeased at her conversation. From all reports, yautja weren't actively hostile to humanity, just indifferent. Uninterested. As long as you didn't get in their way, that is.

Well, she didn't want to end up with a spear through the heart for her audacity, but she very much wanted to get in this one's way.

Then he spoke, a series of guttural clicks and rasping syllables that her own translator implant behind her ear interpreted for her. "Why does a human want to know?"

“Call me curious. Or, Sophie." She took in the collar-like neckpiece, the myriad cuffs and beads adorning his dreadlocks. "What’s your name?”

He replied with several rough, staccato syllables that her implant didn't even attempt to translate, and she winced playfully. “I can’t say that. No offense.”

The yautja's brows lifted in a way that seemed to say, not my problem.

Sophie was aware the barkeep was looking at her with barely concealed incredulity; for adopting such a casual tone with a ferocious and deadly alien, or for having approached him at all, or perhaps both. She pointedly ignored him.

Meanwhile, the yautja's silvery gaze swept her up and down. Sophie knew she was no goddess, but with thick auburn hair (albeit chopped short and now in a stubby ponytail, a good third of it currently escaping around her face,) a trim figure, as well as a direct manner that put some men off and intrigued others, she was attractive enough. Though if a yautja would find that appealing was yet to be seen.

At last he spoke again, and he seemed torn between suspicion and curiosity. “Is there something you want?”

“Whaddya got?”

“If you are a trader, I have nothing to trade.”

“It's not goods I'm interested in trading.” As he processed the unmissable meaning all but dripping from her voice – she didn't know how to socialize with a yautja, better to lay it on thick rather than pussyfoot around and misunderstand each other all night – she pressed, “So can I call you something else?”

He looked disgruntled, almost offended. “No. I already have a name.”

“I'm sorry, I just can't pronounce it. Take pity on me? Poor fool of a human?” She pouted exaggeratedly, tongue-in-cheek. “I need _something_ to moan later in bed.”

She caught him off guard with that. She could tell by the dilating of his pupils and the almost unnoticable rustle of his dreadlocks, as if they had a pilomotor reflex, like a cat's fur. That satisfied her.

“I'm going to call you Alaska,” she announced. “It's a place, on Earth. You've never been, of course... or maybe you have? Probably not. I have, before I left – there are glaciers, these huge masses of ice, and they're such pale blue they're almost white. Like your eyes.”

The newly dubbed Alaska pushed away from the bar, crossing his arms over his chest. “You are... very bold.”

“I am.” Sophie mirrored his position, a fresh grin tugging up the corner of her lips. “Serves me pretty well.”

She would've thought his features were too inhuman to register recognizable emotions, but she could swear there was humor in his narrowed eyes and the set of his mandibles.

“I do not think you could... trade with me.”

“I may look scrawny to you but I can hold my own okay,” she teased. “I'd have gotten out of my line of work a long time ago if I couldn't.”

He looked doubtfully at her body. “Show me.”

“Right _here?"_ She tongued at her bottom lip in feigned seduction. "I wouldn't have taken yautja for exhibitionists.”

“No.” He scoffed in disgust at her innuendo, then tapped two clawed fingers between admittedly impressive pectorals. His skin was the lightest fawn, dappled over with brown so deep it looked almost black in the dim light. There was a dusting of short, thin quills just where he'd touched. She wondered how they felt. “Show me how you... 'hold your own,' as you say.”

“You want me to hit you?”

There was the expression again. It could almost be called a smirk. “If you can call it that.”

She was always game for a challenge, and didn't have to be asked twice. She flexed her arm, cocked back, and delivered a solid punch to his chest. It might have floored someone closer in size to her but he just shifted back an inch at maximum, let out a puff of air, then considered.

“I suppose you have some potential – ”

She sprang up from her toes and socked him again on the underside of the jaw.

He actually blinked at that, flexing his bottom mandibles. Had she gone too far? She braced for his anger, but then he rumbled, “That's the spirit. I like it.”

She wound up for a third blow but at the last second he caught her fist, with near-disturbing speed, and curled his large hand around it. “Your efforts are endearing.”

She scowled, not really meaning it, and tried to pull away, but it was like fighting a steel manacle. He drew her fist to his chest and trilled, a deep sound that could only be interpreted as a laugh. His hand was warm, a little calloused, claws sharper than they looked.

“You really think you can handle me, woman?”

She had to crane her neck up now to maintain eye contact. Her pulse hitched and raced forward, but as if unfazed she batted her lashes. “If you don't know how to please a human, just say so.”

He blinked again, taken aback, then rallied. “Your kind is so fragile. I may break you.”

“No, really,” she continued sweetly, the thrill of the flirtation overriding any intimidation. “I won't hold it against you if you're lacking in the expertise department.”

His brow went rigid. “I assure you, there is nothing about me that is... lacking.”

“Will I have to take your word for that, or can you prove it?”

His eyes were icy in tone but not in mood, as if the physical tussle between them, however brief and flippant, had stirred up his baser desires. His mandibles clicked together, gears turning in his head. As he thought, his grip on her hand loosened, and she wiggled it free.

“Come on, handsome.” She downed his drink for him - almost regretted it, it bit her esophagus like acid - and stepped backward toward the exit. “I've got my own ship.”

 

* * *

 

Sophie's ship was small but practical, and ran like a dream due to her attentive maintenance and tinkering. She cared more for function over form, and the interior could've been tidier, but it was presentable enough, and she doubted her guest cared about décor.

Her cot (a double, mercifully,) was folded up into its wall slot in the sleeping room, and she had to reach up with both hands to pull it down. As she did she felt the yautja's abdomen brush her back, and though she was no dainty waif, his hands almost spanned her waist entirely. His touch was aggressive, purposeful, but as he spun her to face him she resisted, pushing back against his torso before he could shove her on the bed.

“I might never get another shot at this, so let me get a good look at you.”

His body was sinuous and tautly muscled, with not a scrap of excess fat. His spotted skin bore a subtle sheen, as if well-oiled, and a texture that was neither amphibious or reptilian but not at all human. His chest was even warmer than his hands, his heartbeat a sort of four-step rather than her own _dub-dub, dub-dub._ Both heartbeats, she noticed, by chance also happened to be speeding up.

Her exploration was hampered by his equipment, and as if reading her mind he began to shed the layers of battle-scarred armor, fingers nimble on the buckles and straps, laying them all out with care on the shelving ledge next to her cot. Pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves, a shoulder gun of some kind... he maintained eye contact while he did it, his intense focus like kindling on the embers of her desire.

At last, left behind was nothing but a tantalizingly low-slung scrap of leather as a loincloth.

“Take it off me,” he commanded, in a tone that through her translator came across as smug.

“Right away, _sir,_ ” she intoned back in imitation.

She sat on the edge of the bed, running her hands down his the splendid planes and channels of his abdomen. The loincloth was tied about the waist with a thin belt, which she unbuckled, and her belly plumed with lust as the leather fell away to reveal –

Nothing. Those lines of muscle arrowed down to nothing, a flat plateau between his legs where genitals should have been. So the rumors had been wrong. Well – if he didn't have a dick, what _did_ he have, other than a slight swell of mottled but otherwise featureless flesh?

Flustered, her hands fell away, belt buckle thudding on the floor. There was a husky rumble, and she glanced up, to see Alaska... grinning? Was that laughter? Before she could figure out a way to phrase her bewilderment without offending him, the swell opened along a seam she hadn't noticed, the halves retracting above and below like a two-petaled flower. And out sprang a large, glistening, and fully recognizable cock.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” she breathed, gawking.

Alaska tilted his head to one side, hands on narrow hips. “Who are they?”

His cock was the faintest shade of caramel, brushed with deep sienna along the horizontal ridges on the shaft's underside. The head was scalloped around the edge, plump and velvety and graced by a single drop of opalescent fluid.

“I assume I can...?” Sophie trailed off, reaching out rather than finishing her sentence, taking hold of him finger by finger. They could barely meet around it, and she gulped. It felt pre-lubricated, slick and hot from the inside of his body, the ridges firm like cartilage. A thick vein pulsed in her grip, and as she drew her thumb over the droplet he twitched and hissed.

“You sure as hell better know what to do with that,” she murmured, scooting back on the bed. “Or it'll be a real waste.”

Then he was on her, long frame eclipsing hers and pressing her into the mattress, hips slotting between her readily parting thighs. God, he was heavy – ! But his weight was a delicious pressure, cock jutting against her mound as he bent his head to her neck. He smelled vaguely spicy, like cinnamon and incense, and she gasped as a long tongue snaked out to swipe at her collarbone. The four points of his tusks grazed her delicate skin, the threat of pain not frightening but heady, like a drug tried for the first time.

“Why am I still dressed?” she said pointedly. In response claws raked up her soft human belly – it wasn't that soft, all things considered, she was in better shape than most, but it felt that way now in comparison to his brute strength – and fisted at the fabric of her tank top, which gave way like gossamer in his grasp. “No, don't ruin my shirt, that's not what I – oh, screw it, I have more...”

She shifted and reached behind her back to flick open her bra strap, leaving herself bare to him from the waist up. His breath was fast and warm on her exposed breasts, the dangerous proximity of those sharp fangs to her sensitive flesh making her shiver. The tip of his tongue – forked, she noticed now – curled out again to wet her nipple, one hand spreading possessively over her ribcage while the other pushed between them to her waistband. He fumbled with the row of buttons on her fly but growled in frustration, yanking hard and ripping the buttonholes wide enough to yank her trousers down. She lifted her ass and wriggled so he could pull them off completely, feeling the own dampness of her underwear as he shredded those, too.

Before he could withdraw his hand she grabbed it, returning it to the apex of her thighs, and groaned as his big palm cupped her sex entirely. “You know how to do this, handsome?”

“Do what? Touch you... like this?” One finger slipped in between her folds – slowly, experimentally, his eyes watchful – and she exhaled raggedly at the thrill of it, wary of his claws yet wanting more, wanting to roll up into it, wanting the ache inside of her filled to the brim. “I am very observant. When your reactions are positive, I will continue what I'm doing.”

She chuckled. “You'd be surprised how many men can't manage that.”

“I am not a man, am I?”

A shudder jolted through her as he inadvertently skimmed her clit with his thumb. “Sure aren't.”

As she squirmed beneath him he had to glance down once or twice, scanning her anatomy to decide his next move, and she grew hotter under both his rapidly-improving attentions and the weight of his piercing gaze.

“Fast learner,” she complimented breathlessly.

The slide of his alien skin on hers was intoxicating, her core already contracting in anticipation. He seemed to feel the flutter beneath his palm and he growled low, his powerful form all but vibrating with tension. He uttered something the implant couldn't translate, but the bass timbre of his natural voice was aphrodisiac enough that the words didn't matter.

“What, you want this?” Sophie goaded, tipping her chin up at him. “How bad?”

His eyes flashed, and his body was up and caging hers in an instant, covetous and predatory – she brought her knee up to shove at his stomach, which was probably a bad idea, it might just piss him off, but against all better judgment she wanted to see what he would _do._ Wanted to feel what he _could_ do.

His brows knit together, and he hissed and shoved her knee away, but she replaced it with a battering hand. He snatched her wrist and with appalling ease twisted it behind her back, effectively immobilizing her. Her shoulder wrenched in its socket and she squeaked, arching up to alleviate the awkward angle, and in doing so only pressed her wet opening against his cock.

A ripple seemed to run through him. His mandibles flared. The head was springy but blunt, pushing hard against her, and she figured it was gonna hurt but that wasn't such a steep price to pay, was it? A little bitter with the sweet?

“Yeah,” she moaned, as her body stretched and burned around his girth. She exhaled through the discomfort, pushing it aside, and as the ridges on his cock dragged on her inner walls her eyes rolled back, fingertips pressing hard into his back. “Oh... that's good...”

Once sheathed in her to the hilt he paused as she adjusted fully to him, though it seemed a challenge to reign himself in. That simmering sexuality about to boil over was insanely arousing to her, the sheer energy of him erotic. The tips of his smooth dreadlocks tickled her face and breasts and on impulse she licked one, to see if it did anything to him. He started, violently, but the stuttering sound he made was clearly not one of dislike.

His beginning movements were slow, the roll of his hips steady but, she could tell, barely controlled. As the sting of his entry dissipated she found a needy whine rising inside her, a primal craving that flooded her like wildfire and doused any lingering pain.

“I can tell you're holding back,” she panted; half teasing, half begging. “Don't.”

His eyes flared with searing lust, a subsonic rumble humming through him. “I have no wish to harm – ”

“Do I look like a blushing virgin?” she demanded. “Fuck me properly, Alaska.”

He snarled and seized her waist with both hands, claws leaving welts as he pounded into her. Each slam of his pelvis all but knocked the wind out of her, and when her head bumped the wall he braced one hand on it to keep them in one spot. He might very well be rearranging her guts, each thrust in and stroke out winding her pleasure high and tight to the point of snapping.

“Like that, like that,” she whimpered, dizzy and desperate. “God, you feel so... _ah –_ ”

He did this _thing_ with his thrusts, his rhythm rough and overwhelming but connecting flush against her clit, and she swore and screamed and scrabbled at his broad shoulders and started to see white. Her sounds only seemed to spur him on, like a wolf instinctively provoked by a squealing rabbit, and he grabbed her slender neck with one hand and pushed her into the bed –

At the cresting tide of her orgasm she cried out and yanked at his dreadlocks, and he yowled and tightened his grip, and she gasped through her compressed larynx and keened high and wild as wave after wave of crushing pleasure engulfed her.

His body went taut and his cock throbbed, spurting molten heat inside her, one of his claws breaking skin and leaving a streak of pain under her jaw. His breath was harsh and hot on her hair – at some point it had come loose from its tie and now clung sticky to her cheeks and neck. When he at last withdrew with a grunt she could feel his seed trickling down onto the sheets.

As Sophie lay half-awake she was conscious of him rising from the cot, hearing the click and rustle that indicated he was dressing once more. She might've liked to watch that, but her eyelids were so heavy, blood still rushing in her ears.

There was silence then – but she hadn't heard the door – so she cracked open one eye to check, then yelped in surprise to see Alaska standing silently, a looming statue, at her bedside.

“You're too quiet,” she accused, without any malice. “I couldn't even hear your footsteps.”

She propped herself up on one elbow, feeling a bright little bloom of satisfaction as his silvery eyes roamed once more over her sweat-damp body. He didn't seem inclined to say anything, so she prompted, “On your way out, then?”

“Yes.” He tore his attention away from her body and up to her eyes. “I am only at this station to – I have - responsibilities.”

He didn't want to discuss it. That was okay. Private business was private. She nodded, blowing her hair out of her vision.

He turned away, then paused in the doorway to the outer corridor, turning just enough to his fierce, fascinating face was in profile to her.

“I... stop over at this station often,” he said neutrally.

“Me too.”

He made a gruff click of acknowledgment.

“Get outta here,” she said affectionately, and with a swish of his strange hair he was gone.

 

 

* * *

 


End file.
